Revolver
by jsn17
Summary: John Constantine is a lonely man. Haunted by the spectres of his past. At his lowest, does he have what it takes to end it all?


Revolver

**Revolver**

It is a strange feeling to have a gun in one's mouth. It is strange to have a gun pressed against the temple, or rammed into the ribs. It is a terrifying feeling of course, one of dread terror when you experience the instrument of your potential death against your skin. It is electric, like a current passing through one's body. It is not a feeling people should have to experience. Except that it is also a rush, a fast and exhilirating rush as the threat of death is directly before one's eyes. Always is the thought, that if I survive this, then I will have looked death in the face, and not blinked. It is a proud feeling... for those of that world of course. The sensible ones, the normal ones, have no desire to have a gun anywhere near their person, and rightly so. This man belonged to both worlds.

The taste of a gun is nothing out of the ordinary. It is, after all, little more than a metal object to begin with. To psychopaths and action movie stars they were extremely attractive metal objects, but nothing more at that point. The taste is metallic, as any metal object should be. A sour tinge, as with licking a penny, or having one's mouth fill with blood after a nose bleed. The acrid taste, the burn of fire only comes after the weapon has been fired, after the barrel has collected the seering heat that could burn the hairs from a man's back. But it would be a foolish man to put such a weapon in his mouth. This man was a truly foolish man, he had known it all his life, but he would never put such a weapon into his mouth.

The gun that was now in his mouth had not been fired for a long time. He couldn't actually remember when he had last fired it, if at all. Perhaps he never had, that the memories of his bleak past that lingered like poison in his mind were nothing more than fabricated lies. His imagination. The gun was real, he was certain of that. It was an old fashioned gun, a revolver, like the one Clint Eastwood had used in _Dirty Harry_. He loved those films. Maybe that was why he had purchased such a weapon, to _be _Clint Eastwood, like all youngsters when they head out into the world. Six bullets, six chances to live or die. The spin of the barrel. The taste of fear. Russian roulette. This man could not taste fear.

In his palm rested six bullets. The metal glistening with his perspiration, winking up as though mocking him. Coward. All it would take was to load them, and then one little squeeze of the trigger. And then it would be over. This world of darkness and death would be forever nothing more than a bad memory, and he would be at peace. Or at least that was the way it was supposed to happen. It would never really happen that way, it was obvious; his corpse would be hurled into a muddy hole to rot and decay for an eternity, whilst his spirit would... be lost...

It was a test. The feel of gun was nothing new to this man; he had performed this ritual so many times over the years, daring himself to shove the bullets in and pull the trigger. But he never did. He lied to himself that it was practice, that he was simply preparing for the day when he really did paint the wall with his mind. When his funeral was attended by no one except his mother, bleary eyed and angry, and maybe the faces of his past. Ghosts. But it was not practice. The truth was, if he really wanted to do it, he would have done it by now. He would have killed himself a long time ago. He would be no more.

So here he sat, in his mucky underwear, perched atop the closed seat of his toilet, staring directly ahead at his reflection. The mirror above the sink laughed back at him. He saw his pale face, the face of a dead man, and winced. He would be doing the world a favour ending it all, right there and then, staining the grimy white walls with the blood of his life. He looked down to where his stomach hung over his boxer shorts, filled with beer and pastries, the fruits of death. There was nothing for this man anymore.

"You okay in there, darlin'?"

He jerked up suddenly at the sound of the voice, pulling the wet barrel from his mouth. The bullets dropped from his hand, six separate thumps against the wooden floor. Desperately, he dropped to his knees to collect them, hands scrambling, heart thumping, breath catching in his throat.

"What're you doing in there?"

He shouted through the door angrily. "Mind your own business".

When all of the bullets were safely in his hand again, he pulled up a small floorboard behind the toilet and threw them in. He stared at the gun for a moment. _I'll see you again_, he promised the weapon internally, and dropped it in as well. After replacing the floorboard he stood up, wiping the sweat away from his brow with his forearm. The female voice was still hissing through the door at him. He could have sworn she was asleep when he had got up. He wished she would go and leave him in peace. But it was his own fault. He never should have phoned for her.

After splashing some cold water over his face, he left the bathroom, left the blinding lights reflected off the white walls, and returned to the gloom of his bedroom. But he was not alone on this night. Sitting on the edge of the bed, her torn skirt pulled up around her waist, sat a young woman, no older than thirty. She had tatty brown hair that ran down her back, and features as pale as the man's own. Her make-up was applied messily and hastily, smeared in some places, and her upper body was barely concealed by the thin tank top she was wearing. She had not looked like that when she had entered earlier that night. A cigarette lingered in her left hand, igniting her distant eyes as she gazed up at him. He stood near the bathroom doorway, lighting his own cigarette, another Malboro, his favourite, looking critically down at the woman.

"What?" she asked forcefully.

"Thought you were asleep," He murmured between drags.

She sighed, "Yeah, well, I haven't really done anything to get me tired, have I?"

The man looked away, scowling towards the open window across the room. "Not my problem".

"It bloody is!" The woman snapped. "It's not my fault you can't get –".

"Shut your mouth!" snarled the man, casting her a look of pure darkness. "You say one more word and I swear to God –".

The woman stood up, jabbing her finger forcefully at him. "You'll do what?" she demanded. "Ha! Nothing. You're all mouth".

_Yes I am_, thought the man miserably, allowing his body to sag, as he sat down upon the bed, head bowed. Through the haze of smoke he could still see the woman staring at him keenly. Her eyes were a pale green, unblinking, but then finally calm. She registered the man's defeat and sat down next to him. Their skin was close to touching.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

He coughed a little. "Yeah, I bet it's hard work being a bitch".

She laughed. "It really is. So what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Aren't you sorry?"

He didn't even think about it. "No".

"Why not?" the woman glared at him. "You're not sorry for being a twat earlier?"

"No".

"Why not?"

The man chuckled to himself. "I like being a twat".

The woman smiled at this, running her fingers through her hair. Her hands shook as brought her dying cigarette to her lips. He glanced at her. God, what had he been thinking?

"You can go now," he said suddenly.

"Oh, I can, can I?" the woman asked patronisingly. "That's good of you".

She stood up, pulling her skirt down so that it actually covered her legs, and looked around for her bag. Mumbling to herself, she packed her cigarettes and lipstick away and turned tartly to gaze accusingly upon the man.

"You gonna' pay me?" She queried in a tone that was more threatening than inquisitive.

"No," He murmured bluntly. "You didn't do anything for me".

She kicked the wall furiously. "Damn it! That wasn't my fault".

The man simply ground out the remnants of his cigarette, savouring that last smoky taste, before casting his gaze back up at the woman. He uttered no word. She was growing agitated, he could tell, but he did not care. It was not his problem.

"Bastard!" she growled. "Don't phone me again". And she stormed from the room.

He did not offer to escort her out, or walk her home to ensure her safety. He could not have cared less to be honest. The distant sound of her vanishing footsteps echoed up from the hallway, then from the stairs, and then from the garage. And then she was gone. He was alone again.

He stared at the wall directly ahead of him. A strange blue light was glazing it, as though the sea itself had entered the room. It twinkled strangely, and a person unfamiliar to it would have been hypnotised. But he had seen it before, many times, in the night, when he was unable to sleep. It was strange how it had become comforting recently, how the light had kept his eyes fixated all night, and he had never felt tired. And the light was washing over his shoulder, and he knew who was there without even turning.


End file.
